The Golden Apple
by Cairnsy
Summary: A routine ribbing of Prouvaire leads to the uncovering of a romantic interlude from Grantaire's past. Slash.


_Author's notes:_ I hate this story. I decided earlier in the evening to dig it out and have a re-read of it, having not really looked at in about a year. Of course, to do that I had to first find the disk I had saved it onto, which took several bloody hours, only to find out the file had been corrupted, and instead of having seven or so clean pages of type, I had 130 pages of mainly gibberish, with the story interwoven here and there. And because that is obviously not bad enough, the story wasn't even in order, with all the paragraphs in completely different pieces, making the story one huge and very difficult to decipher jigsaw puzzle. 

It's a jigsaw puzzle that took me four hours to put together. Four hours. I doubt it took me that long to write the actual story. And the worst thing is, the story isn't even any good. At all. 

That said, it is now 6:30am in the morning, and I've been dealing with this fic since 11pm last night. There is no way in hell I wasn't going to post it after all the work I went through just getting it presentable. Any feedback would be met with much relief and love ^_^ 

_Summary:_ A routine ribbing of Prouvaire leads to the uncovering of a romantic interlude from Grantaire's past. Slash. 

It was a wave of warm air spiced with laughter that greeted Grantaire the moment he entered the small cafe. Quickly shutting the door behind him, and the bitter winds with it, he shrugged out of the several additional layers that the weather had bestowed upon him. Persephone had obviously spurned her mother's love early this year; it was certainly warmer in Hades tonight than the streets of Paris. 

"Ah, Grantaire!" Combeferre cried out in welcome upon spotting him. "How rare is that you should show up several hours *after* us!" 

"Perhaps Grantaire actually _does_ go home to sleep‚" Marius joined in, humour taking away any malice that could have otherwise coloured the comment. 

"I find that highly unlikely," Enjolras muttered, looking up from the array of books that were sprawled across the table he occupied. Unlike the others, who were seated collectively around a sole table, wine glasses and bottles adorning it like a spruced up Christmas tree, Enjolras had claimed lay to an empty one nearby. 

"And a good evening to you as well, dear Apollo!" Grantaire replied with a smile as he swooped towards the clustered table, grabbing a stray chair as he did so. "What matters are we discussing of worldly importance this evening?" He continued as he squeezed his seat between Joly and Courfeyrac ‚ swiping up the nearest glass of beverage and downing it in one sweep. "The wonders of Revolution? The despairing state of our fair city?" 

"Jean's latest attempt to convince us that love like that in his poetry really exists," Joly replied solemnly. "It is a discussion of earth shattering importance, such disillusionment." From the other table Enjolras snorted, before focusing back on his books, wiping absently at his brow as he did so. 

"Ah! Aphrodite's curse! She is the most dangerous and demanding of all the Gods!" Grantaire pronounced, downing another random drink. "One moment an innocent virgin, the next a tempestuous whore, she holds all men in the palm of her carefully manicured hand, ready to crush them at the faintest hint of boredom." 

"I take it you share the others opinion, then," Prouvaire wryly commented, poring himself a drink of his own. "But surely, can you all not say that you have been touched by the delicate tendrils of love, or that you have never experienced one of the many facets of it? Love unrequited is still love." His demanding glare was met by a sullen silence. Feigned disinterest stained the faces of those who were oft used to wearing masks, while others merely looked uncomfortable with the way the outburst hit far too close to home. "I thought not." Prouvaire finished with a flair, before turning to Combeferre. "Well, who was she?" 

Startled, Combeferre glared bewildered at his friend. "Who is who?" 

"Why, the vixen who once stole your heart!" Prouvaire‚ replied, as though it was the most obvious answer in the world. Grantaire inwardly groaned, settling back in his seat as a rather twisted tale of lost love flowed from Combeferre's lips like weary wine. Inspired by Combeferre's admittedly forced confession, tales of woe and heartache from the others soon followed, aided by the alcohol that flowed as loosely as the tales. 

"And what of you, my cynical friend?" Courfeyrac asked, after finishing his own tale of a whore who had become much more than a sleeping partner, if only for a month or two. 

"Yes, Grantaire do tell," Enjolras added, not bothering to look up from his books. "What kind of lover *is* a wine bottle?" 

"A rather enjoyable one, actually," Grantiare replied, grinning rather charmingly in a way that was sure to infuriate the other man. "I didn't know you took such interest in my love life, Enjolras!" 

"When you sleep with your whore in even the most public of places‚ it is rather hard to ignore it," the other man replied bitingly. 

"Do not rile him so, Grantaire," Combeferre gently chided. "He has a paper to rewrite, Professor Fele thought his recent attempt inadequate." The comment surprised Grantaire, as he had always known Enjolras to apply himself as diligently to his studies as to his hopeless causes. The taunting reply that was half way to his lips was bitten back, however, as he saw Enjolras tense, expecting of the blow. 

"Wine can actually be quite romantic, you know," he replied with instead, watching as some of the strain that seemed to have coiled itself into each fibre of his Apollo drained away. But only some of it. The fool was pushing himself too hard again. Sometimes it was Enjolras himself who needed to be reminded that he was but a mere mortal, after all. 

"But before your heart was whisked away so romantically by a bottle, who did it belong to?" Combeferre asked, shooting him a grateful glance as he did so. 

"Hmm, before the absinthe? Does one really know love at aged 4?" The comment brought laughter, as he had intended, but not the change of focus that was supposed to accompany it. 

"Surely you all do not want to here my tale of woe?" He questioned. "It is far from entertaining, and not a tale many have not heard before, the names and faces simply different." 

"Come now, Grantaire!" Joly protested. "We have all shared, it is only fair that you join in our humiliation." 

"Ah why not?" he decided, glancing heavenward. "The child is long gone, and what reputation do I have to lose by revealing that once even I had a heart?" The comment was met with a roar of approval, as eager faces closed in. 

"Several years ago, back when absinthe was simply a companion and not a lover, there was a boy." He paused, weary of the reaction such a statement could bring. Marius, in his innocence, looked lost, while Combeferre and Joly looked surprised, yet in a fashion that didn't present disdain. Courfeyrac simply nodded, as though such a revelation was perfectly acceptable. The golden head of Apollo didn't once bob, nor did his hands still. It appeared that he had once again tuned out the conversation in typical, Enjolras manner. 

"He was quite brilliant," Grantaire‚reflected, remembering days where his life had revolved around more than the bottom of a wine glass. "But young - so innocently young. I was intent on corrupting his virtue from the moment I laid eyes on him," he added with a smirk, and if it was more for the sake of the others, they could not tell. 

"How in the world did you of all people meet the acquaintance of someone so innocent?" Joly asked with a grin. 

"Paris is a big city," Grantaire replied. "It is easy for one not familiar with her twisted and darkened depths to lose their way, in my friend's case, it was merely physically. When one is lost, they are forced to ask strangers for directions, non?" 

"So you met him while doing your imitation of a sign post?!" Combeferre laughed good-naturedly. "How romantic!" 

"I tended to view it more as a dashing knight coming to the aid of a lost maiden, myself," Grantaire replied wryly. "The streets of Paris are certainly not a recommended hostess for those who do not know of the demons who fester there. It is certainly not the place for a beautiful child." 

"Enough about Paris, you speak of her more tonight than Enjolras does in a good week!" Joly interrupted, his desire for the story to continue obvious. "Tell us of this boy." 

"He talked - oh how he talked!" Grantaire continued, a small grin adorning his face that seemed to have its roots in the past. "In the time it took me to walk him to his apartment, he had discussed everything - politics, literature, art - all in a whirlwind of knowledge and unbridled passion. He seemed to breathe nervousness and excitement‚ the kind that only the ignorant know of. He had such romantic dreams of Paris ..." 

"Naïve or not, I highly doubt anyone would be so willing to fall into a stranger's arms – or bed, for that matter, after knowing them for only a few hours," Prouvaire spoke up as Grantaire's voice trailed off. "And we are talking matters of the heart here, not the groin," he added, a small smile in place. "Love is a very different beast to lust." 

"Are they so different?" Grantaire countered, leaning on the table as his eyes caught Prouvaire's. "They are both spurred on by a need for comfort, both ways to escape reality. It is simply that one is game played by children, the other by adults." He paused before continuing. "And no, I did not sleep with him that night. I promised to show him the sights of the city the next day, to introduce him to new people. He was to start at the University soon, it was only fair he experience life before he became dedicated to his studies. He turned out to be an enthusiastic and constant companion - if not at times over eager. I believe he was lonely, one would have to be to choose me as a companion, non?" Grantaire laughed, yet this time, none of the others joined in. He blinked back his surprise as he took in the intensely interested gazes of friends; even Enjolras was studying him, quill resting, forgotten, on his notes. 

"The more time I spent with him, the less my thoughts spent in his bed," He mused, picking up where he had left off. "The boy grew on me, much as I denied it to myself. After all, even then cynicism was a well-versed friend of mine. I had no intention of falling in love, for love is for fools who have yet to be introduced to the real world." He paused, expecting some form of interjection from Jean, yet there was none. Even the poet seemed engrossed in the story. 

Well, he had always been a bard of great skill, and who was he to deny a willing audience? Dionysus would be proud. 

"It was several months before any move was made, and it was surprisingly the child who made it. In a cafe I had introduced him to, not as seedy as my usual haunts, but not quite the kind of establishment I am sure he had been familiar with in the past, he stopped mid rant about some poet or the other, and kissed me." Past surprise still tainted his voice. "Sweet lips that were as tender and innocent as he was‚ and even with such brief contact, it was obvious he had never kissed a man - or perhaps anyone, before. If Zeus himself had dropped from the heavens I couldn't have been more surprised, and it appears it showed on my face. Misinterpreting shock for rejection, he stumbled over himself in an attempt to get out as many apologies as one can in the span of only a few moments, before fleeing. Silly child." 

"And you followed him?" Joly questioned, the impatience in his voice drawing a smirk from Grantaire. 

"Oui, Joly - I followed him. It was not until he had reached his small apartment that I caught up with him, however. He thought I had followed him to hit him, I believe. I silenced that thread of thought, along with several others, rather quickly, with gentle kisses and caresses that would have made the most talented poet wither in jealousy." He found himself pausing, knowing how so unlike him the next phrase might sound, yet unwilling not to say it. "I believe that night was the first I had ever truly made love to someone." 

A sigh from the other side of the table was the only noise in the small cafe, the few other patrons having long since left. There were several moments of silence, and it was surprisingly enough Enjolras of all people who spoke up first. 

"I take it there was no fairy tale ending?" He asked, voice carefully sculptured to reveal no emotion. Grantaire glanced at him oddly before replying, a sardonic smile in place. 

"Not unless it was written by the brothers Grimm. In true Grand-R style, I managed to destroy everything in a mere 24 hours." 

"24 hours." Combeferre echoed, disbelief evident. "I doubt that even you are capable of such quick destruction." 

"We are all capable of such destruction when we are dealing with something as fragile as another persons heart," Grantaire replied, gulping down several sips of wine before continuing. "I made a mistake, one that cost me dearly. Upon agreeing to meet the child later the next day at my apartment when we were confronted with dawn, I was unluckily enough to have a visitor not long before he was scheduled to arrive. An old friend, not one any of you would know, mes amies - we parted company soon after. It appears he was worried about my desire for the boy, that I was going soft. My opinion of love is not one I alone share, and I do believe he was trying to help me," Grantaire laughed, bitterness robbing the action of any humour one might normally associate with it. "Of course, even then I was convinced that my feelings were nothing more than an odd whim, certainly nothing as pretentious as love. And that is what I told him. That the child has fulfilled his original purpose to warm a space in my bed, and that such fickle emotions had never had a place other than to entice and woe, and having achieved their goal, were to be discarded with. It was then, I believe, that I first began to realise the falseness that rang in my words, and question their validity. But by then, it was too late." 

"He overheard you, didn't he?" Courfeyrac spoke up as Grantaire's voice faded away. "Arrived early?" 

"I will never be able to forget the look on his face, the utter betrayal, the hurt." Grantaire finally replied, dark eyes drowning in the depths of his wine glass. "Innocence shattered. In a flicker of a moment he was gone, and my careless words had done too much damage to bring him back. The few times I saw him after that, he offered me no time to try and explain, to plead forgiveness. It was not until I had truly lost him that I realised how much he had actually meant to me. It was not long before he had managed to completely disappear from my life altogether." 

"That is an incredibly sad tale," Combeferre softly stated. Grantaire simply shrugged. 

"One should not mourn the past, Combeferre, the future presents such a wider playing field." 

"And you never caught up with him after that?" Joly asked, an almost wistful sadness tainting his voice. 

"About a year ago, I ran into him. Simply chance - not fate, playing her hand. He was…" He paused, unable to find the right words, so opted for less accurate ones. "… much changed. He was no longer a boy, and the city had robbed him of much of his innocence. He dismissed me as one would someone they had the greatest dislike for, and I could not really blame him. He then provided the ultimate proverbial salt in the wounds: he pretended that he had never known me at all." Tale finished, Grantaire laughed, downing a drink immediate after. "See, a bottle of wine *is* a more loyal companion, although a rather brief one." 

"If he were to walk in this door this very moment, what would you say him?" Combeferre asked, although the answer came not from Grantaire‚ but the cafe owner, Monsieur Lacrone. 

"He would say it is nearly dawn, and the cafe should have closed many hours ago. Shall we perhaps take this elsewhere?" Taking the hint, all but Grantaire rose to their feet, several offering muted apologises for staying so long. It was Joly who first noted that Grantaire remained seated. 

"Are you not coming, mon ami?" Joly asked, looking confused when Grantaire shook his head. 

"I believe I shall rent a room here tonight, if Monsieur doesn't mind"? Used to the behaviour of such a regular, the owner simply grunted in reply. With a quick wave, his friends were gone, leaving Grantaire to his solitude. He wasn't sure how long he spent sitting there staring off into space after the others had left, lost with the ghosts from his past. It was a time he had oft attempted to forget, for it did nothing but wane his soul more than it already was. Yet, he had never been able to quite let go … 

"And if he walked through this door this very moment, what would you say?" The quiet voice startled him from his memories, and it was with surprise that he looked up to find Enjolras standing in the doorway of the cafe, leaning gently against its frame. 

"En…Enjolras?" He questioned in disbelief, rising to his feet. 

"If he were to stand here in front of you, acknowledge you, what would you …" Enjolras' voice drifted off as Grantaire closed the distance between them in several long strides. "What would you say?" He finished, eyes locked boldly with Grantaire's. 

"I would offer my apologies. I would say that he was a needless casualty in a battle that should never have been fought, certainly not on the terms his wounds were received." 

"No more flowery language, Grantaire," Enjolras demanded, exasperation dominating where only tiredness had earlier. "Is it too much to expect just this once a straight answer?" 

"Is a straight answer really what you want, Enjolras," Grantaire replied, reflecting. "For one can not pretend to miss the meaning or avoid words that are told starkly and to the point - there is no denying the truth that rings in ones such as those." 

"This is pointless," Enjolras practically growled, more to himself it seemed than the other man. "I should have known I was wasting my time." He punctuated the last word by spinning on his heels, stiffly heading back the way he had come. He had barely taken half a step when Grantaire roughly grabbed him by the arm, the force of the pull spinning Enjolras around. Any furious outburst from the other man died a quick death as Grantaire crushed his lips with his own. 

Too long. It had been far too long. 

Grantaire made no attempt to be gentle, simply gave in completely to the pressing desire that had ignited the kiss in the first place. Pale, powerful hands came up to his shoulders ready to push him away, to break the uninvited contact. Yet at the last moment they seemed to rebel, instead of violently shoving him, they snaked around the back of his neck, and an almost involuntary groan stole itself from Enjolras' throat. 

And then, Enjolras was kissing him back. Want, desire, need - they all warred for prominence, yet they were buried under desperation. And passion. Oh yes, passion certainly made itself evident ... 

He did not care to gauge how long they stood locked like that, knowing simply that it was long enough that when the pulled apart, both were short of breath. 

Was that what you wanted, Enjolras?" he hoarsely demanded. "You wanted it in simplistic terms, I doubt that I could have put it more clearer than that." 

"A simple apology would have been sufficient," Enjolras contradicted, breathing slightly heavier than normal as eyes that attempted to remain emotionless somehow fell somewhat short of their usual standards. 

"Words are superficial, they can be twisted and spoken in falsehood. Actions are not so easily disguised. You did not answer the question, Enjolras. Is that what you wanted, what you demanded?" He paused, examining the other man, who had remained silent. "It is not, is it? You wanted me to deny it, claim the story was nothing more than a fable to entice and tease the imagination of the others." 

"We are not the men we once were," Enjolras replied shortly, as though he was coming to his senses. 

"You are wrong, Enjolras. We are but extensions of who we once were. A human does not move from personality to personality, we simply become more complicated. You now hold the golden apple, Apollo - it is your choice alone that decides its fate." 

"One cannot decide the fate of something that doesn't exist," Enjolras replied sharply, startling Grantaire slightly. Enjolras was not known for playing games with words, it was more of a device Grantaire used. Straight laced and very much to the point Enjolras was avoiding questions like a pro. 

"Ah, but this golden apple does exist, it has simply been tarnished by time. To which Goddess will you give it? Athena, who will promise you the battle you desire so much, yet offers nothing else. Or will you perhaps choose to hand it to Aphrodite, who offers you love in return?" 

"And where is Hera in this equation?" More sidestepping. 

"Hera is trying to knock off one of Zeus' many whores, no doubt. The apple?" 

"I once heard a man say," Enjolras began, oblivious to the question. "That love was a game played only by children. We are not children anymore, Grantaire." 

No. NO. 

"Do not let my cynicism rub off on to you, Apollo - you are a far better man than that." 

"You were right, Grantaire," Enjolras mused coldly. "I think I *would* have preferred the flowery version. This, this ... I don't understand." 

"I think it is more you do not want to understand," Grantaire replied quietly after several moments pause. "Is Patria such a harsh mistress that she will not allow you any happiness at all, Enjolras?" 

"No," came the almost soft reply. "I believe that was you." This time, Grantaire made no attempt to stop the other man as he left, the hollow bang of the door echoing through the room long after Enjolras had left. 

Aphrodite had lost yet another pawn. Or was that perhaps gained one? 

Troy was doomed to fall, either way. 


End file.
